


A Slap to the Back of the Head is a Wake-Up Call

by KuriNCIS (KuriKoer)



Series: Wake Up Call [1]
Category: NCIS
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-13
Updated: 2010-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriNCIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case goes very right for Palmer. First in a series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slap to the Back of the Head is a Wake-Up Call

**Author's Note:**

> First of a 'verse. Thanks to CeruleanCat.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear, Ducky," Gibbs moves from the doctor's side, heading for the door. This latest find should crack the case wide open.

"I would love to take credit, Jethro," Ducky calls after him, turning to remove his bloodied gloves, "but young Palmer here is the one who made the discovery. You see, it was he who brought up the pilgrimage in Spain.... of course, there is a rich history to that..."

Palmer notices the approval in Gibbs' eyes as he passes by him, but before he can process it, he feels the impact. Gibbs' warm hand connects with the back of his head, and the jolt is pleasant, though unexpected. He inhales a moment later, letting the sensation seep through his body, expecting Gibbs' hand to disappear immediately; but it stays there, on the short hair, for another fraction of a second before sliding down, not a lot, just an inch, barely touching the warm, naked skin on the back of his neck. And then it's gone.

Gibbs smiles at him. Good job, his eyes say. And then he's gone, too.

And Palmer smiles. To himself, more than anything. To the warmth spreading from the back of his head, to his neck, tingling down his spine and lower. He takes a deep breath and then, at Ducky's impatient glare, returns to work. But the lust-struck grin remains.

A few hours later, they find another body. The same MO, the same unit as the other dead sailor. They process it while Ziva looks around the crime scene, a dark parking lot just behind an abandoned restaurant. Ducky is in the back of the van, arranging his kit. Gibbs is sitting at the wheel, scrawling something on a piece of paper in the dim overhead light. He squints. Palmer thinks it's the sweetest expression.

He knows it's unprofessional. But the body is already bagged and there's nothing on his hands, and the light glows on Gibbs' hair, and his face is bathed in shadows. Palmer's mind supplies a reminder of how his hand felt; a light slap was all it took to redirect his entire thought process.

Palmer doesn't think; he leans over Gibbs and takes advantage of his surprise. Gibbs, always terse, all he needs to say is in his face, in his half-open mouth, eyes narrowed, eyebrows knit together. No angry words, not yet. Palmer straddles Gibbs' thighs. Waits a moment, and when he doesn't encounter resistance, he grinds, moving seamlessly so their cocks press together, Palmer's own hard, hot length against the front of Gibbs' slacks. Gibbs' hand, the one not holding a pen, finds its place firmly on the curve of Palmer's ass, squeezing possessively for a moment before letting go, resting there. Palmer grinds again, moans. His lips tingle. His arms move up around Gibbs' neck, but he doesn't kiss, not yet, just hovers closely, maybe waiting for permission, maybe waiting for a move.

And Gibbs pushes him very gently away from the kiss.

"When the case is over, Palmer," he says, as gentle as Gibbs can be, cutting and short to anyone but those who know him, "when the case is over, come see me."

He nudges Palmer off him again, and Palmer leaves the car, still in a daze, cock more than tingling, aching now, mind flooded with images, with hopes, with dirty half-baked notions of what might be and what could be, and what he wants so hard, so suddenly.

It's hours more before Gibbs finds the killer; Ducky needs to sign the papers, Abby needs to finish logging everything they've found. Tony and McGee hover in the squad room, doing whatever it is they need to do. Palmer waits, no longer impatient, only dazed, in a state of suspension from all things reasonable. He's looking at Gibbs' hands on the desk, Gibbs' fingers rushing on the keyboard as he finishes his reports.

Ziva walks past him, her coat on her arm, bag hanging over one shoulder. She gives him a look, long and dark and unfathomable. He glances back, a little nervous.

She smiles, only a small smile that tugs at her lips. "Good night, Jimmy," she says, a little ominously for his tastes. Then her little smile turns into a smirk and she moves past him.

The day is over. Gibbs looks up from his computer. Palmer is still there. Gibbs shrugs on his coat.

And Palmer approaches him, almost shyly, and says, shuffling one foot and feeling foolish about it and unable to stop it, unable to even keep his gaze on Gibbs, "The case is over."

And Gibbs says, softly, "Yeah, I know, Palmer."

And Palmer swallows; there's a moment of silence.

And Gibbs says, "What the hell was that back there?"

But his voice is warm. And his eyes smile, and his mouth quirks.

And Palmer swallows again, and before he can answer, Gibbs raises his hand fast as a snake and to Palmer it's as slow as a dream, and the open palm hits the back of his head again, and this time he can't hold back a moan.

And Gibbs says, quietly, "You know where I live?", and Palmer can only nod, mute, dry-mouthed, hard, eyes wide and almost begging, though he's not sure yet for what.

And Gibbs says, "See you there in an hour."

And he walks.

And Palmer stares after him dumbly and then smiles again, the biggest, brightest smile of his day yet.


End file.
